poli

she/her | 23 | multifandom | 🏳️‍🌈 currently obssessing over mota and f1

[polifandom]

i'm poli! 23, brazilian, multifandom.

there's a big chance i followed u here because of my f1 or my art sideblogs. if that is likely to be the case, go check those out instead! :3

<3 my f1 blog -> @polif1

<3 my art blog -> @polifanart

<3 my ao3 + my masterlist

<3 ask is open for anything! lets talk :)

:)

[polifandom]

i miss mota's fandom way of writing deep crushing angst and suffering. nothing else really does it like them...

[shanicetjn]

Saja Doodles

I finally have a little bit of time for warm-ups...

Doodled - 21 February 2026

[polifandom]

the utter heartbreak of having someone you deeply loved and cared for (and that appeared in all your fucking college graduation pictures in the fucking middle of the group) come out as a fucking prejudiced piece of shit that uses twitter as a personal diary to post bigoted rhetoric and right wing bullshit.

literally fuck that person fuck the universe fuck maga fuck homophobia fuck transphobia fuck bolsonaro fuck trump fuck everyone that is a fucking insect in the lives of the people around them pretending to be someone theyre not just to have us all looking like idiots for ever believing you were a decent person. FUCK THAT and FUCK YOU if you're this. you know who you are. clown ass mfer.

[areallyyellowmango]

PinkGuards! Thangyu

[andthepeople]

modern au where john is a washed-up pop star (big in the early 2000s) (lots of auto tune) (real name john egan stage name bucky. obviously.) who starts getting death threats and has to hire a bodyguard. you see where i'm going with this. cue straight-laced ex-army monosyllabic married man gale cleven. who is definitely not about to become boybestfriends with the man he's been hired to protect. especially because he won't stop fucking calling him buck. (goddd the ego on this one.) except gale's in a loveless marriage and wound so tight that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass in three weeks you'd have a diamond and from the instant john sees this man he's obsessed with him. and gale's got to follow him around to parties and clubs and drive him everywhere and watch him fool around with women in the back seat and remain completely sober and alert at all times which means he starts noticing things about bucky. and starts thinking about him. and sleeps in his house every night, instead of going home to his wife. and after a while he starts to like this fucking guy. he starts to like being at john's house more than he likes being at home. and then maybe the first time gale lets himself kiss a man someone gets past his meticulous perimeter and breaks into john's house and gale takes a bullet for him and john is so scared for him but also so incredibly turned on which amounts to him putting his hands all over gale in the back of the ambulance even though gale tries to insist he shouldn't come to the hospital with him. and gale's loopy on painkillers and jesus doesn't it feel nice to have john all over him like that, so big and warm and comforting and gale doesn't have to be in control for a minute, he can just sink into him, and they pull into the ambulance bay all wrapped up in each other, gale's face buried in john's shoulder, practically necking in the back of the bus, and the EMTs throw open the doors and who has just arrived but gale's emergency contact, his wife. and also every paparazzo in the world.

[crowtits]

not to make everything about the buckys but now i need a fic where gale (reluctantly) brings john home for the holidays--his mom's sick and his dad's gotten into a bit of trouble (again), and it's just easier to deal with all of it if he's nearby, but john won't let him go alone.

They putter around town, doing errands for gale's mom, getting stuff to make for dinner. john's making friends with gale's high school buddies, while gale's trying to figure out how much money his dad needs ('cause of course the man won't just tell him).

Whole time they're at the house (sharing gale's old twin bed, faking like one of them is sleeping on the floor. after the first night they're both sleeping on the floor, 'cause two men who're six foot(+) really should not be in a twin bed), john and gale's dad are taking jabs at each other. subtly, to not rile gale up, but neither of them like each other.

Anyway, all that to say, there is of course a scene where gale's cooking dinner so his mom will take a nap, john and gale's dad trying (failing) to make small talk. gale says, "Daddy, hand me that pot holder would you?" Without thinking, John rushes over--and now he and Mr. Cleven are having a stalemate by the counter.

John ain't concerned about souring things with gale's dad at this point, so he snatches up the pot holder and moves around him, "Here ya are, doll."

Let's just say gale is leas than trilled with him

[wickeddraven]

“Let’s do it up, Buck. Paint the town red.”

[girlswiththecurls]

For the fake fic ask game 🐑

#(not a) damsel in distress #pining while fucking #hurt/comfort #idiots in love

- @elleviral

Ooooh thank you for the ask 💕💕💕💕

Ex military social worker John Egan is worried about the guy in the next apartment. He's pretty sure Cleven's an escort, and he's not judging, but he goes out looking slick and put together and comes back roughed up at least once a week and the word from John's clients is he might me mixed up with some brutal characters. Hinting to him about resources runs John into a brick wall, but he doesn't want to read about them finding his body in the newspaper.

Meanwhile, Special Agent Gale Cleven is deep under cover, trying to infiltrate a nasty prostitution and gambling ring. The last thing he needs is his hot but nosy neighbor getting involved in the dangerous games he's playing. Clearly, the way to throw him off the trail is to seduce him. Once he's gotten what he's clearly sniffing around for, he'll back off...

Fake fic ask game

[girlswiththecurls]

Hiii i was wonderingggg are you still gonna do youre top drop buckyyy??

So... I have a doc, but it's nowhere near the part with actual top drop yeeeet. I have an embarrassing number of docs tbf. Ha, this is the beginning of what will eventually be that story tho-- maybe?

John knows better than to sneak around basement bars in towns where he doesn’t know the lay of the land. It’s great because the cops won’t recognize him, but then he won’t know them either. He’s got no interest in having his military career derailed with a blue out of the gate, no sir, Ma Egan’s boy is going to be taking up flying.

But then there’s the blond. Tall and skinny as a toothpick, nervy, with gum in his mouth where another fella would have a smoke, taking in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders like he’s about to ram a tank with them, and going in. He has the prettiest eyes that John’s ever seen in anyone’s face, boy or girl, and controlling himself has never been a strong point.

So John hits the queer bar, password burning in his brain, and doesn’t stumble over it neither. It’s tiny, dark and smoky, but the jukebox is playing a nice record and he’s not sorry he’s there yet.

Beauty is already holed up by the bar, straightbacked as if he was held there by a pole, narrow eyed, and tapping his fingers on the wood. John has a thought that maybe he’s a cop decoy, no reason he couldn’t be a pretty one, but then he’d be off decoying if he was?

He settles himself next to Beauty, and says, “say, you look like a fella I used to know in Wisconsin, went by Buck.”

Beauty has a soft, pink looking mouth that’s currently pulled around a bottle of cola. He puts it down, affixing that pale eyed glare onto John. “Sure, bet I do,” he said. He had a nice voice, deep and sweet, would probably sound better if he had a little more to suck on.

“How ‘bout I buy you a real drink, then, Buck?” John put on his best wheedling grin. Beauty’s eyes narrowed, but John could tell it was appraisal not annoyance. A flick up and down, deciding if he liked what he saw. John spread his knees and kept up the grin, all cheerful offer.

He can see the second a decision was made too, Beautiful Buck sliding to his feet, all graceful like, and made to stalk off. Strike out, John figures morose about it for a half second before there’s a half turned shoulder, a sharp little jerk of the chin and Buck says, “I don’t need a drink, come on.”

And Ma Egan may have raised a damned fool, but not that much of one, John came on. And got his cock sucked like a damned machine on a dirty toilet floor for his troubles. Buck on his knees, long lashes, pretty lips parted, looking at him like he didn’t know if he wanted to punch him or suck him off, but fishing him out of his pants anyhow.

And John had a minute to think about god and Jesus and cross his damn self and then there was a tongue wrapped around the head of his cock and Buck took him in so fast he gagged himself. Left John dizzy and wet, knees barely keeping him up so he was clinging to the sink praying about it.

Then Buck rinsed out his mouth and ditched him like a bad smell.

[illyalawhammer]

[andthepeople]

ok but what if gale DID drink right up until he met bucky. shook hands with his new roommate, looked him up and down and instantly clocked that he was going to need a 24/7 designated driver. so he said (demure smile) no bucky i don't drink. i'm just a simple wyoming boy. no vices here no sir. CUT TO three years later at a pub in england somewhere. bucky's in over his head in a drinking contest with the RAF. curt's already unconscious. bucky's flagging. and gale says sigh. alright. if it's a question of defending america's honor. and then he sits down and drinks every single RAF man under the table without blinking or breaking a sweat. totally methodical. dead eyed stare. bucky's gaping. jaw on the floor. gale admits he's been drinking with adult men since he was eight. he's got the alcohol tolerance of a fucking rhinoceros. he could drink an entire bottle of whiskey for breakfast and fly a mission stone cold sober land the plane perfectly and go to interrogation and no one would ever have a clue. bucky's so turned on he's going to pop his zipper

[wickeddraven]

MafiaAU

| ns🪄fw |

[miaklare]

kpop demon headers✶⋆.˚

[girlswiththecurls]

Clegan forced marriage au but in way that absolutely NO ONE asked for other than me. Gimme some old west, rule 63 with a, ahem, twist.

If someone other than me is into this, well, I am excited for us!!

Read it on AO3 or else here below:

There's some pretty girls in the little town, nice ones that go to church and wear bonnets, smile shyly and duck their heads. Bad ones with hiked up skirts and rogued up cheeks, painted and available if you had the coin for it. The school teacher, bookish and clear eyed, with kind hands.

There's some kind of pretty girls for sure, and then there's Abigail Cleven, though the town called her Gale. Gale, like a sea storm, though she’d never seen the open water in her young life. Gale like the ocean blue of her eyes. Gale with a yellow braid down her back, long and straight and a face like a picture post card or a fine painting brought to life. Ought to be a nice girl, clever as the schoolmarm, from the way she carried herself, but her daddy was a gambler, just bad at it, couldn't keep her fancy. Her mama was a good time girl, everyone knew it, but Gale, she wore her skirts proper and showed no bosom with the cut of her dress, never painted her lips.

But her daddy was a gambler all the same and word in town was she went out walking with John Egan who was a known gambler himself with his fancy vest and fancier six shooter. Tall, big fella. Friendly, good for a drink, but you wouldn’t challenge that one, word was that he’d fought with Little Phil Sheridan, whooped the rebs but good and made ‘em run howling.

So when Abigail Cleven turned up in the family way, no one thought of any other fella. She was a good enough girl, never followed anyone else.

Her daddy looked at her and shook his head, spat on the ground, “a damn Yankee, gal?” he said.

She faced him down, straightbacked. “John ain’t the one,” she said, firm as anything.

Paul Cleven only laughed. Everyone knew that she’d gone walking with John Egan, her arm steady in the crook of his elbow and smiled at him, laughed at his jokes. He helped her off her horse and walked her to church, though not inside.

Preacher’s wife whispered Egan’d let her in the back stairs of the hotel on Main Street and she’d come up with him, proud as Eve before the fall, wearing a blue bonnet over her yellow hair.

The same yellow hair her daddy seized her by and dragged her out of the house with until she came willing to spare her own dignity.

Paul Cleven wasn’t a popular man, but popular enough to grab a posse with shotguns to come in to find John Egan at the poker table. “Egan!” he yelled, when John didn’t look his way immediately.

John, tall and curly haired, with skin as smooth as a gal’s and twinkling blue eyes, who stood up and put his own sunbrowned hand on the gleaming hilt of his six shooter.

“Mr. Cleven,” John said, smooth, black eyebrows lifted. “Nice seeing you here. Looking to buy into our game?”

“Don’t you Mr. Cleven me, boy,” Cleven hissed. “I’m calling you to account for what you did to my girl.”

“Excuse me?” and John’s genial face twisted, laughing mouth tightening. “How is Miss Cleven?”

“Don’t you Miss Cleven her, you bastard.” Cleven put a hand on his shotgun. “You’re gonna come with me to the church and make her an honest wife or I’m gonna tie you to the back of my horse and whip you through the town.”

“Huh,” said John, laughter fading. “Well, I guess I’d better come then.” No one was sure whether to nod knowingly or feel surprised. A crowd followed Cleven and his posse, Egan in his fine suit and shiny shoes, hand on his gun but coming along all the same, down to the whitewashed wooden building that was the town church.

There in the front was Abigail Cleven, blue shawl over a black dress that hung loose enough not to quite show a swollen belly, blue eyes cold as a winter morning in the mountains. There was a trail of blood in her corner of her mouth and another fellow with a shotgun by her side.

John’s eyes narrowed. “Not sure the lady is interested in a wedding,” he said, cool as anything.

Paul Cleven shrugged, spat on the ground and patted his gun. “Not interested in her bellyaching. You put the brat in her belly, I won’t be raising no bastard in my house.”

“Wasn’t him,” hissed Gale, in her rough, sweet alto. “I said it wasn’t him, let him be. Let him be now, and I won’t stay in your goddamned house neither, don’t you worry yourself.”

John sighed and stepped up to her, never mind the guns. “Gale,” he said, and now his tone had lost its smug edge, gone careful and conciliatory.

“It’s not yours and you know it,” Gale told him, head on, as if it were just them two, no gang with guns or milling crowd of onlookers drifting in, no preacher fumbling over already, one of her Uncles behind him. “You know it, John.”

John shrugged in his suitcoat. “Is that your only objection to these proceedings?” he asked.

She stared at him, shook her head. “You know it,” she repeated. “I won’t have you forced like this.”

There was a cock of a gun. “Ain’t up to you, gal,” someone snapped. “Preacher, get to it. Get him up here.”

And so they pushed Egan up to the altar right up to Cleven girl’s side. They looked at each other. He made a face but didn’t push back. Instead he raised up a palm to her cheek, a thumb to her bleeding lip. “It’s alright with me, if you’ll have me, sweetheart,” he said, staunch and earnest in a way that made a man spit, a woman sigh and Abigail Cleven stare with her blue eyes and soft mouth, her lips parting just enough for the touch.

“This ain’t right,” she said, looking at him, and then back at the crowd and then over to the preacher, who just smiled, adjusted his glasses and opened up his book. “This–” she swallowed, visible in her pretty throat. Closed those remarkable eyes. Opened them again. Looked back at her father who only glared at her like she was nothing, and at John who held out a hand, the only open hand in the room. Swallowed again. “You can’t mean it.” A statement.

John only kept his hand out. Finally, finally, she looked him dead in the eye and took it. The crowd let out a long sigh.

The preacher cleared his throat. “Right then, folks, shall we get to it? Folks, we are gathered here in the sight of god, who made us man and woman–”

Gale coughed hard and John shrugged, clapping her on the back with his free hand while he held on tight with the one holding hers and looking back at the preacher.

“Ahem. God made us man and woman and gave us the covenant of Christian marriage. John Egan and Abigail Cleven, I ask you now in the presence of these people to declare your intention to enter union with each other.”

The crowd held its collective breath.

“Well, I will,” John said, grinning.

Gale shook her head. “This here is insanity,” she said but didn’t pull her hand away. Someone cocked a gun in the background. “Anyhow,” she hissed, without looking back at the gun. “I will anyhow.”

“Wonderful. I now pronounce you man and wife. May the congregation rejoice in your union.”

Someone clapped. John Egan smirked and, without pause, kissed his bride on her soft little mouth, gentle as he could. She seemed to kiss back, didn’t slap or hiss or protest, maybe even chased his lips with hers.

“Hello Mrs. Egan,” he said. And then, to the crowd. “If you folks will allow, I’ll be taking my wife and headed on home.”

Someone whistled, someone else cheered. From out of nowhere a little girl tossed a handful of daisy petals. A couple of old soldiers called out “Hurrah!” like the boys in blue had on the battlefield, low and deep.

And he did, guiding her through the crowd and right up the street to the fine hotel where he had his rooms, through the front door this time.

It was only there with the door solid and barred behind them that they looked at each other, Gale in blank eyed disbelief and John sturdy and smiling.

“Well,” he said, “Wasn’t that something? But you’d better tell me who smacked you, because no one puts a hand on my wife.”

She blinked and put an arm around her stomach. “I told them it wasn’t yours. That– why didn’t you tell them?”

This earned her a laugh. “Honey, why didn’t you?”

“They’d a strung you up if they knew,” she said, head a shaking helplessly. “I couldn’t do that to you, could I?”

“Well, yeah. But you could of if you wanted to but you chose to marry me instead. Means, now you’re my wife, says god and everyone.” And John shrugged out of the fancy coat and undid the fancy tie while Gale watched him do it. Buttons of a shirt and bindings underneath, showing what Gale knew and what no one else in town did.

Gale was the only one in town that knew John was born Joan, just kept breasts bound and let height and size do the talking. Who’d fought for the union in men’s garb and chosen not to give it up on mustering out. Gale knew because she'd been up in John's hotel room before with her dress shucked off and her knees spread and Joan's curly head in between them. She knew because she'd licked her open in return.

Men’s wool trousers, finely woven, linen underthings and wiry hair between her legs that smelled of sweat. Skin around her neck and cheeks too soft for any kind of fella’s, for all the stink of whiskey and pipe tobacco.

Gale who now just sighed, rubbed her eyes and stepped forward. “It’s Mark Spencer’s,” she said, finally. “I’d a named him, but he–” but he’d moved on to Lil in the next town over before John Egan rode into town in the winter. Timing made sense too.

“He’s a damn fool,” John said, quietly. “It’s mine now, and you too and don’t you let anyone say otherwise.” And then leaned down and kissed her again, tender and marital, the dutiful husband.

[polifandom]

me when i write one of the most outrageous combinations of fandoms to ever grace the earth;

[shipstorms]

fic

bit from the inside

chapter 1

After the war, Gale changes.

"You got a name?" the man asks. They're almost of height. He's got cedar brown hair and is slimmer than Gale, but in a way that speaks of nature and genes instead of deliberate starvation. Gale says, "Buck." "I'm Paul. That your real name, Buck?" "No," Gale says, and feels like he's lying.

(for @thebuckys, who shared this post that latched onto me like a parasite)